


2018

by ghee (sabakunoghee)



Series: A Better Place for You and Me 🌸 [2]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Editor Lieutenant Leslie, Eventual Smut, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Slow Build, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23225893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabakunoghee/pseuds/ghee
Summary: “On a serious note, though,” before he left for good, Blake reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, “Here. Just in case you need professional help,” his voice was deeply concerned, “Do try to give a call.”Leslie’s brows entangled as soon as he read the name on it, “Another Blake,”“A psychologist.”orThe second `season` of 2017; written particularly for JoLie's (non-existent) relationship.
Relationships: Colonel MacKenzie/Captain Smith (mentioned), Lieutenant Leslie/Joseph Blake, Tom Blake/William Schofield (minor)
Series: A Better Place for You and Me 🌸 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669978
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	2018

**Author's Note:**

> I know they never met, I know.  
> But I'm a mere human who couldn't resist Madden's charm and Scott's bright smile. I'm not a psychologist nor I have any knowledge, but I went through some counseling session when I was younger, pardon me if you find this misleading ( I did the best I could in delivering the random fact, tho-)  
> Not really beta-ed, but I guess this one is fine(?) and this is somewhat a continuation from 2017, focussing on JoLie's journey in finding each other, with BlakeField cheering on the background. Happy reading, happy weekend, and please STAY AT HOME.

“You need help, I tell you.”

It was Thomas Blake – and surprisingly, he was the one who _told_ someone else to get some help.

The young writer stood akimbo, eyes usually bright now violently pierced at the other man, lips twitched in slight annoyance at his editor: Leslie. He rolled the draft on his hand and gave the older one light hit on the shoulder, “Leslie, you reek of alcohol – _I’m not going to talk about the nicotine, geez_ – and the sun hasn’t even set! I mean, seriously?” Blake sighed heavily as Leslie stared at him, obviously pissed off, snorting.

“Dare to lecture me, you baby-brat?” he grabbed the papers on Blake’s hand and quickly read them, then heavily groaned, “Try to do less purple prose innit, won’t you? And why the fuck you’re using _uhtceare_ , now?”

“Hey, that’s an old English word meaning, ‘lying awake before dawn and worrying’ – it suits my male character well!” Blake pouted, extended a hand to snatch back his writings, but Leslie didn’t give a chance for him to do so.

“I _know_ what ‘uhtceare’ is, punk, but do you think the rest of the world could grasp your idea without any need to look at the dictionary?” he watched how Blake opened his mouth, trying to argue, but he shut it after two seconds. Leslie could hear his harsh tone gradually went softer, “Listen, it’s not about how big the words you use, but how to deliver your idea to the readers – use your usual style of writing, keep it clean and simple.”

Blake played with the tip of his shirt, “I… I just want to try something new.”

“Then do it on your blogs or Twitter, or – I don’t know, you millennials and your excessive need of self-actualization will slowly kill an old man like me,” Leslie got himself a marker and highlight some words he found redundant. It took him a solid ten minutes to go through twenty pages. Two cigarettes after, he handed back the draft to the writer, “Can’t risk my career releasing such a Shakespearean drama.”

“Fine…” frowning, Blake reread the whole thing and cringed a lot at how _much_ editing he needed to do – he might disturb his partner the whole night and weeping while doing so, “Please give me at least a week?”

Leslie rolled his sleepy eyes, “Three days.”

“Five, pretty please?” Blake used his puppy eyes – which wasn’t very effective.

“Three and a half,” Leslie lit up his third dose of nicotine, strictly wasn’t moved by Blake’s charm, “Now get the fuck away and get it done, Soldier,” he laughed mercilessly at Blake’s ‘I am so very dead’-expression, “Cheer up. You can annoy your barista-boyfriend and use my revision as an excuse to stay at his place.”

“That’s,” a finger was raised, “ – actually a good idea.”

Leslie scoffed, “Oh, young love, sugar and spices, my allergies!”

Blake chuckled at how the beanie-guy waved his hands in the air as if he was driving away swarming bees.

Long story short; it had been a couple of months after Blake was officially in a relationship with a man of his life, William Schofield, who currently happened to be the most-talked barista in town. Even though they hadn’t decided whether to live separately or move in together, Leslie _knew_ that this cheeky little bastard sold _his_ name so Blake could spend more time at Schofield’s café. He didn’t mind, actually, for he also had known the barista for quite a time. Leslie just wondered, especially every time Blake submitted his recent works, how a healthy and supportive relationship could change a person. This Schofield-guy, a young man with soft eyes but sturdy figure, helped the reckless Blake to be better in almost everything.

His past relationship, on the other hand – Leslie took a deep breath.

“On a serious note, though,” before he left for good, Blake reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, “Here. Just in case you need professional help,” his voice was deeply concerned, “Do try to give a call.”

Leslie’s brows entangled as soon as he read the name on it, “Another Blake,” he was about to argue once he found out what Blake was trying to do – but he held his words back once he saw the sincerity in his blue, goddamn flickering blue eyes. He hated the fact that he had a soft spot for this kid, “A psychologist.”

“Mm,” Blake confirmed.

“Are you saying I’m insane?”

“Oh now, that’s where you’re wrong!” Leslie made a ‘here-we-go-again’ face when Blake got himself a chair, sat down a foot away from him, readied himself to give a speech, “You don’t have to _wait_ until you’re one hundred percent proven clinically insane to have an appointment with a psychologist – well, you show me, and the rest of this office, some symptoms leading into one, actually. Smith said that,” Blake’s innocence saved his ass this time. Only if a look could kill, Leslie must’ve murdered him with his scorching glare, “What I’m trying to say is,” he exhaled, “My brother could help you with your hardships. You appear to be a workaholic since your last heartbreak, and that’s not very healthy,” Blake grabbed Leslie’s hand, “I tell you this because I care.”

Just the _usual_ Blake; he didn’t give Leslie anywhere to escape, “Kid…”

“Smith also cares about you,” he tightened his grip, tried his best to convince the exhausted editor, “Well, actually, MacKenzie told him to tell me to tell you,” Blake awkwardly grinned, “So, please consider it.”

Leslie sighed.

If the marketing and sales managers noticed his condition already, his career was at stake. He gazed at the card in his possession, toying it while memorizing the name printed on it – Joseph Blake. Never had he thought he would need medical help, but, _alas_ , he recognized it way too well that he wasn’t that _well._ Sadly.

“Is your brother as chatty as you are?” _as if listening to your ramblings all day isn’t already enough._

Blake smiled, “Oh, you’ll like him,” he said proudly, “He’s just like me, a little older.”

“Fuck me.”

* * *

“So, chocolate doesn’t cause weight gain.”

“Only if you blend it with eggs, flour, a crazy amount of sugar,” the answer was followed by synchronized giggles, “Despite its bad reputation, chocolate has many great benefits – it also increases mood.”

William Schofield and his ‘O’-letter-mouth, “Tell me more.”

“Are you being serious?” the other party asked with an eyebrow raised, “I could talk all day.”

The barista grabbed a memo and a ballpoint, “I don’t mind.”

Joseph Blake put down his cup, clacking his knuckles, straightened up his sitting position,

He was spending another lazy afternoon at the No Man’s Land – a small, vintage-war-themed coffee shop with the owner himself. Such a luxury for a man who worked as a health practitioner, to have a ‘me-time’ and temporarily withdrew from someone else’s life issues. Of course, he was a professional. But even the most proficient psychologist had to treat themselves to ease their state of mind, so there he was. Sipping a cup of hot chamomile tea while chattering with his – well, he already considered the barman as his brother. And this man was easily fascinated by science, it pleased Joseph in some ways.

Ten minutes ago, he explained the advantages of consuming green tea daily, and now, this.

“According to an article I read from the Netherland Journal of Medicine, cocoa, the key ingredients of chocolate, contains an active phenolic compound,” Joseph raised a finger when he saw Schofield’s confused face; he shouldn’t use the medical term when talking with common people, he guessed, “Simply put, they’re your ally. Dark chocolate, especially if the concentration is seventy percent or higher with no additional sugar and milk, lowers your cholesterol level and reducing the risk of a heart attack.”

Schofield, with a serious expression, nodded, “And you said something about mood. How does it work?”

Joseph had to restrain himself from blurting out the source, and retold only the needed information, “It stimulates the production of endorphin; the brain-chemical responsible to create the ‘feeling’ of pleasure, pain-reliever, your natural response to fight stress or discomfort,” he did the quote sign with his fingers, resulting in Schofield tilted his head, “It also contains a good amount of serotonin, which regulates both anxiety and happiness, _‘mood’_ – mostly used as a medication for treating depression.”

“Okay but, why are you keep on doing this?” asked Schofield while imitating Joseph’s gesture.

“Because ‘feeling’ and ‘mood’ does _not_ fundamentally exist,” Joseph replied, his finger movements were consistently still, “Everything you think you ‘feel’ is the play of neurotransmitters and hormones. When they’re balanced, you’re good, but when they’re not, you’ll suffer from what people call ‘mood-swing’. And those bastards are produced by your brain,” he casually shrugged, “Literally, it’s _all_ in your head.”

For a moment, Schofield clicked the retractable pen against his chin. Trying to consume all the information Joseph just told him was overwhelming, yet he concluded, “So, you’re saying that love is _not_ real.”

“Love is _fucking_ real.”

Joseph was about to say a solid ‘yes’ when another Blake entered the room, cut his reply off.

The younger Blake rushed his steps, walked past the counter and bumped into his lover with his lips pouting. Schofield didn’t have a chance to greet Thomas; the moody writer sealed his lover with a kiss before even saying hello to his big brother. When he pulled away, Joseph saw a hint of redness on the barista’s face, but his stupid sibling didn’t seem to bother. Or ashamed. He crossed his hands in front of his chest, eyeing Joseph discernibly, “Are you trying to brainwash Sco to _stop_ loving me or what?”

“Technically, love is—”

“No more John Hopkins or I’ll tell Ma you forgot to bring Myrtle to the vet.”

Joseph raised his hands. Surrender.

Thomas glanced at Schofield, then at the scribble on his hand, back to his awkward grin, “And you, Sco – since when you’re a science geek and listening to his gibberish?” His glaring did the rest of the talking.

“Can’t help it, Tom, your brother is… Resourceful,” Schofield defended with a small laugh.

“Knowledge is power,” Joseph added. With a thumb.

The small Blake groaned, “Oh, go the fuck home, Joe,” he hissed, “By the way, Sco, I’ll spend a night here, Leslie just destroyed my work and I have to return the _revised_ version by…” Thomas did a clumsy calculation using his fingers, “…shit, by Monday, that evil arsehole has no heart at all, doesn’t he?”

Schofield just nodded. As usual, when it came to Thomas-staying-at-his-place-for-a-night, it developed into ‘a whole weekend’, but he didn’t argue anymore. When he shut his mouth, he essentially thought what kind of menu he needed to cook so he could stuff Thomas’ belly for the whole three days ahead.

Joseph, being a natural observer he was, examined the young couple’s gestures in silence.

Since forever, Thomas never liked – anyone, but always searched for _something_ amidst the crowd. He already fathomed that his younger brother never showed any interest in the opposite gender. _Nor_ in the same gender. But things drastically changed when he first met Schofield, who visited their residence in Essex, told him and their mother that he was a mere ‘friend’. As a rational, _if not skeptical_ , individual, the concept of infatuation was simply ‘war of hormones’. _Per se_. However, being a witness of the way those two interacted, Joseph was somewhat convinced that love, _perhaps_ , was a real deal.

And _perhaps_ , intimacy just simply wasn’t his thing.

“I guess I’ll leave now,” Joseph excused himself after placing two pounds, “See you on Sunday.”

By ‘Sunday’ he meant the mass; both Thomas and Schofield nodded in unison.

“Oh, by the way, Joe!”

Joseph was swinging the door open when Thomas yelled, “Yes?”

“Check your phone,” knowing that his big brother had this habit of staying away from the world of the internet once he had a chance, Thomas pointed at Joseph’s pants, smirking, “You’ll thank me later.”

“I always _thank_ you for practically anything,” he joked. Still, he rummaged his pocket and turned it on.

Thomas smiled, a bit mischievous, “This once would be different, trust me.”

“ _Try_ me.”

* * *

New appointment scheduled; 7th of April, 2018.  
Client's name: _**Armitage Leslie**_.

* * *


End file.
